Turingar, son of Thurin, had been at Medrim for two months. It was a wonder he lasted so long. The visibility of him created by his height and mass made him the perfect target for the enemy. He had fought his way out of many scrapes and had saved many good men. His loud laugh, good humour and direct, if somewhat child-like nature, ensured that he was friends with everyone at Medrim.
No one could deny they loved the blonde giant from the north. His greatest claim to fame was his skill in battle. Men were happy to follow the blonde streak of rage into battle, knowing full well that chances were, as long as they stayed close, they were likely to survive almost any skirmish. General Stran couldn’t help but smile when he watched the brute in action.
“Take the third line!” he barked. The commanded was repeated until it reached the ears of Thuringar. Grinning like a madman, Thuringar changed direction and led his battalion in a diagonal swath across the third line of attackers.
Like so many battles at Medrim, this quickly dissolved into organised chaos. Unable to get word to his men, Stran prayed that they each remembered their parts and played them to perfection. This they did do, but it did nothing to stave the carnage. People were dying at an alarming rate. If this continued for much longer, all of Vanolin would be stripped of its fighting force in just two months, and left defenseless against unspeakable horror.
The cloud that hung over Medrim keeping the skies perpetually black broiled overhead as a great rush of the enemy reached the walls. Moving frantically, the men poured pitch and oil and set aflame the mindless army of the enemy.
Thuringar’s battalion began to push the enemy back towards the flames. It was part of the strategy. The enemy feared the light and heat of fire as it feared nothing else. Driven wild by the flames, the armies of the enemy broke and fled and any that were caught fleeing were slain.
When at last the dust and din of battle cleared, Thuringar was revealed, bloodied and broken on the field. His death was slow.
When at last he drew his last breath, Thuringar was taken from the hospital and buried by the west gates of Medrim. Above his grave they erected a tall statue in honour of the warrior. He was deeply mourned.
To this day, tales of the blonde giant’s exploits are sung throughout Vanolin and the territories of the North Men. Such a hero is not easily forgotten.
- Thuringar, Son of Thurin. Battle Heroes of the Third Darkness. Darupim the Elder. C. 2306. S. VIX, V. III.